


May I Trim Your Hedges?

by Enochianess



Series: Dirtiest white boy in America [11]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Dealing, Episode Related, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, Jealous Mickey Milkovich, M/M, Marijuana, May I Trim Your Hedges, Murder, POV Mickey Milkovich, Pedophilia, Prostitution, Roughhousing, Season/Series 03, Shooting, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:03:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 3 Episode 3 - Mickey focused</p><p>"That your grandpa?" He asks.</p><p>"Nah, just a guy I've been seeing." Ian replies casually.</p><p>The kid looks smug and Mickey's pretty sure he knows what's going on. He knows he's being provoked, that the redhead is trying to get a reaction out of him, and it's fucking difficult for Mickey not to bite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May I Trim Your Hedges?

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of Mickey Milkovich and I don't think his side of the story was explored enough on the show, so I'm writing his story canonically episode by episode and adding and expanding upon the scenes as I see fit (And yes, this does include smut, because their kiss and sex scenes were virtually nonexistent). All the works will be named after the episodes in the show.
> 
> *Gives you the bird because we're in the shameless fandom and this is the best way of expressing my affection and love for you all*
> 
>  _Disclaimer: All named locations used in this fic are real, but the events are a work of fiction. Therefore, the depictions I have made of the locations are not accurate and I do not mean to make any claims on the reality of them_.

The minute Mickey steps onto the platform at Western, he takes a cigarette from the packet he'd stolen from Iggy earlier and lights up. It's a habit now more than anything else, and it never fails to bring him an instant sense of comfort. He doesn't know why he's here really, why he thinks seeing the crack house where his mom died will make him feel any better about the whole thing. But still, 12am and here he is. 

He pulls the zipper up on his black jacket and tugs the hood over his head, peering from side to side as he crosses the street and heads down South Western Boulevard. He feels edgy in this part of the neighbourhood, unsure as to who is who and what they're capable of. No one seems to pay him any attention though, and he's grateful for that. He's not sure how good he'd be in a fight tonight, not when his hands won't stop fucking shaking and the world's spinning a bit too fast. 

He turns left onto West 51st Street, blinking at the bright lights of the passing cars. The sky is that strange, hazy, grey-black it turns when it's about to rain, the muggy air weighing down on him as if there's about to be a storm. He can practically feel the electricity in the air, the pressure, warning him it's about to crack and rumble, the sky flashing as the lightning strikes. He grumbles to himself, annoyed that he's picked tonight of all nights to do this. He can't bear the itch that's been mounting beneath his skin anymore though, can't stand to be so consumed by all the anger and fear. He wants it to be over, just as quick and clean and explosive as the storm in the atmosphere soon would be. He needs it done by the end of the night. He needs to regain his self-control. 

He glances at Cornell Square Park as he makes a right turn onto South Honore Street, quickly dipping his head when he sees the cops patrolling the area. He knows it must be something to do with the most recent shooting; they didn't usually bother in this neighbourhood, but at least a dozen were killed and it'd look bad if they didn't make an effort. Jamie'd told him about it a couple weeks ago, ranting on about it being a service to the community. A kid had been caught in the crossfire and now Mickey's brother was too scared to let his sons out at night. The injured kid was about the same age as the youngest Gallagher, and Jamie said he was still down at the intensive care unit. Mickey hoped he'd bounce back; South Side kids pretty much always did.

As he nears the house, Mickey places another cigarette between his lips and touches the flame to the tip. He puffs on it like it's a lifeline, his chest tightening and his stomach dropping unpleasantly. He hates that he's letting any of this affect him, wishes he could be more like Mandy when it came to this shit. He's not entirely convinced she holds it all together as well as she makes out though. He thinks maybe she's just a good fucking actress. They all were really; you didn't have much choice with Terry as a father. The moment any emotion flickered across your face, he was ready to smack it right off. You could get angry as much as you liked because that was something he could use. The Milkovich temper frightened people and intimidation brought about good business. Anything else was just a pain in the fucking ass. 

He stares at the triple storey, brick house, his breath whooshing out of him like he's been punched. He tosses the end of his cigarette onto the pavement and runs a hand through his slicked back hair, humourless laughter tumbling from his lips. He can't believe his mom had been stupid enough to stay so close by, especially in a crack house as infamous as this one. You didn't have to be very deep on the inside to know about this place. To be honest, Mickey's surprised it hadn't been busted by the cops years ago. He thinks his mom must have been desperate and pretty fucking far gone to have been this careless. Terry would've found her in no time. Mickey knows for a fact they had a couple of junkies on the block who would've happily snitched her out to him, especially if it meant a free high.

There's yellow police tape around the front, but it's laying on the floor already; the house has probably had people squatting in it. He swings himself over the chain-link fence, rolling his eyes at the padlock the cops have put on it; as if that'll help to keep anyone round here out. He thinks about the best way to get in, wondering if there's a door to the basement out the back, since all the windows have already been boarded up. He walks around the side of the house and smirks at the sight of the back door hanging open on it's hinges. Breaking into crime scenes on the South Side was so easy even Joey could do it without backup. All the buildings were worth fuck all and no one had any money to buy the places anyway, so it didn't really matter what happened. The authorities didn't give a shit.

The first thing that hits him is the familiar stench of sweat, sex and urine. It's dark in the old house, but as he moves stealthily towards the front, the empty rooms become illuminated by thin streams of light from small gaps in the boarding. He wipes a hand down across his face, exhaling heavily as he looks at the crime scene. There's not a lot left now and Mickey figures the cops must have done a clear out, preparing it for real estate agents or some shit. He pulls his flip knife from his pocket and flicks it open, holding it tightly in his hand as he starts ascending up the creaking stairs. He grips the banister with his other hand, anxious about whether the old steps can actually hold his weight. He cocks his head to the side, listening out for any possible sounds of life, and breathes a sigh of relief when he hears nothing but the cars out on West 51st. He keeps one hand on the wall as he walks down the narrow hallway, biting at his lip when he enters a large room in the front of the house.  _Here,_ he thinks.  _This is where they found her._ He doesn't know how he can tell, but a shiver runs down his spine when he walks into the middle of the eery space and looks at the stained mattress in the corner. He wonders if it's some weird mother-son bond. Although, they'd never really had one of those. Not a real one anyway.

Mickey touches his fingertips to a set of scratch marks on the wall, his stomach twisting at the thought his mom could've made them. He remembers in ninth grade when they'd learned about World War II and the Nazis, about Auschwitz and the death camps. He remembers being shown a picture of the inside of a gas chamber and noticing the long lines clawed into the walls. He remembers thinking that those people must have been fucking terrified to have made marks that deep, that it would've probably torn their fingernails clean off. He can't help but wonder if his mom had been frightened like that, if she'd been trying to escape someone who wanted to hurt her. He thinks there must be scratch marks just like these etched all over the walls of her mind, thinks the horrors that've taken place in this house are nothing compared to what probably went on inside her head.

He'd been six the first time he'd gone into a crack house. Mom was missing and dad had been fuck knows where for weeks. Things were pretty bad. Mandy was sick and needed antibiotics, but they didn't have any health insurance and didn't have a single dollar to their name. Jamie was out on a run already, but it was gonna take him a few days to get back and Mickey wasn't sure Mandy could wait that long. So, Mickey took things into his own hands. He wrapped his little sister in blankets, gave Iggy and Joey orders on how to look after her, and then went out alone to get some cash. Jamie'd shown him a couple of months ago where they stashed everything, so he took a small bag of each substance and jumped on the L, repeating over and over in his head the station his brothers had told him to get off at. He'd been frightened as he sneaked into the house, immediately recoiling when people started grabbing at him with shaky, weak hands. He only sold to two or three of them because most of them were just as penniless as he was. He ignored Iggy's order not to snoop around, and somehow managed to get away with two hundred dollars; he'd found it behind the broken microwave and everyone was too out of it to notice him taking it.  

Standing in the crack house now is enough to trigger all those memories. He can picture it; the junkies laying all over one another, some babbling and moaning, others already unconscious. He can imagine his mom rocking back and forth, her bloodshot eyes filled with tears as she tries to get all the grubby hands off her, terrified because she doesn't know if the touches are even real. He knows she would've become more and more agitated, her adrenaline spiking as the hallucinations really started to take hold. He hates that the dealers and pimps would've just sat there and laughed, watching as she spiralled out of control like she's some sort of fucking entertainment act. He knows that's what would've happened because he's seen it plenty of times before. He'd drop by at a house just like this one to see a regular buyer, and often they'd be stood in the corner with a friend, watching a half naked girl roll around miserably on the floor, as if it's the funniest fucking thing in the world. It's sick. All of it. He hates it. He hates it.

Mickey curls his hands into fists, closing his eyes as he tries to calm down, and then suddenly he lashes out, an arm flying forwards until his knuckles collided with the wall. He bites down on his lip hard, trying to contain the cry of pain that's clawing up his throat. He shakes his hand out with a grimace, gazing over the torn skin. He thought the slight pain would help, but if anything it's just made him feel more wound up. He kicks at the wall, again and again, until he hears it crack and a hole breaks open in the plasterboard. He looks around blearily, smacking himself on either side of his head to try and stop the tears pooling in his eyes. He wasn't gonna start fucking crying. Milkoviches didn't cry. That was for girls and fags. Milkoviches dealt with things through violence and anger; it was instinctive, ingrained. He's not sure whether it was from nature or nurture, but he figures it doesn't really matter anyway.  _Stop fucking crying._

 

Mickey gets home early in the morning and is woken a couple of hours later by the sound of his brothers shouting. He gets up with a groan, rubbing at his eyes tiredly and opens his bedroom door. Joey pushes past him and slams the bathroom door shut.

"What the fuck happened?" Mickey yells at Iggy. 

"Well, uh- I went upstairs with Nico to do the exchange, y'know, like normal. Joey stayed downstairs to keep watch, and uh- when we came back down there was a redhead riding him on the couch." Iggy mumbles, scratching at the back of his head. "Dark skin. Real pretty."

"Right... I don't hear anything stupid so far. What the fuck else?"

"Turns out she was Nico's girl." Iggy shrugs.

"So she weren't a hooker?"

"Oh no, she was. I think it was a similar deal to what dad had with mom. Y'know, like wet and loose but only for him?"

"Mom wasn't a whore, Iggy. She was the fucking payment."

"I don't know, man! All I knows is that Joey fucked one of Nico's girls and Nico went ape, like Donkey Kong on steroids ape. We had to fucking leg it while he was firing clips at us. I swear I nearly shat myself when Joey screamed, but it only skimmed his arm. Still, fucking close."

"He's lucky it was just a graze." Mickey mutters. "This is fan-fucking-tastic. Dad's gonna lose it."

"Can't you just do that one from now on? We don't have to tell him if you cover for us."

"I've got enough to fucking do as it is! I got double the names you got _and_ I got shifts at the Kash 'n Grab."

"I'll do Billy on South Maryland. You fucking hate that guy. _C'mon, Mick_." Iggy begs.

Mickey stares at his brother for a moment, thinking. Dude did have a point. Billy was a pain in the fucking ass. And besides, they couldn't afford to lose a customer, especially not one like Nico; he was willing to pay much more than most of their buyers, and he always bought in bulk. If they lost that kinda business... well, it wasn't even worth thinking about. They had their own debts to pay off and business was business was business, as his dad so frequently told them. It doesn't matter if they're deaf or blind or both, you sell, they buy, or they get a knife in their leg. It was just survival. That's how it worked round here. It would've been easier if their dad didn't make so many stupid deals, leaving Mickey to manage whatever small amount of cash they had left. Mickey was the one who had to deal with all the money troubles and juggle the payments, so he knew better than anyone else how important it was to keep all their clients. And Nico was one of their main sources of income. His hands were tied. Especially considering Joey and Iggy would get the beat down of their lives if Terry found out. Mickey couldn't just stand by and let that happen. His brothers were counting on him. It didn't matter that Iggy's offer was complete bullshit and that Mickey would have to keep going to Maryland as well as to Nico; it was his job to protect everyone. He'd learned long ago that him and his siblings had to stand together if they were ever going to make it through in one piece. 

"Fine." He says, trying to sound as pissed off as possible.

Iggy shifts from foot to foot, looking down at his little brother apologetically. It always fucking worked. Iggy was like a damn puppy. Sure, he was taller and older than Mickey, but he was no where near as strong and just didn't carry the same level of thuggish intimidation. Even as a kid, when Mickey needed to ask Iggy to grab things for him because he was too short, Iggy still used to hang behind him in a fight. 

"You're on herding duty next time Mandy's home though. Dad's not tried anything the past couple weeks but it don't mean he won't. Just hang out in the kitchen or somethin' until he comes home and passes out. I ain't letting him get his hands on her again. Fucker went at her good last time."

Iggy nodded. "I don't think he means it. Mandy really does look like mom sometimes. It must be hard tellin' when you get as shit-faced as he does."

"Yeah, well. He ain't doin' it again. Fuckin' watch him."

Mickey sighs at the sound of Joey groaning in the bathroom. The idiot had always been useless at cleaning wounds. He could get knocked around by their dad without uttering so much as a sound, but as soon as he was dabbing antiseptic on, he was bawling like a five year-old girl. Usually Mandy did it for him, but she'd been hiding out at the Gallaghers' for the past week or so. Mickey rubs at his temples in irritation, knowing he was gonna have to go and help the prick. But that thought is quickly shot down when Terry throws the front door open.

"Kid fucker. South Princeton." He says.

Mickey and Iggy don't need to hear anything else. The order is crystal clear.

"Where's Joey?" Their dad asks when they slam the door behind them.

"Uh- " Iggy murmurs, his eyes darting about nervously.

"Tidyin' up some loose ends. Got a little messy today." Mickey says with a confidence he doesn't feel.

Terry grunts, uncaring, and steps easily to the front of the small South Side mob. Mickey falls behind him, Iggy moving to his right and Ian appearing on his left. He smirks, sensing Ian's eyes on him, but he's too conscious of everyone around to risk a glance. They've got work later; he can look at the kid as much as he likes then. 

"What the fuck is this little parade?" Someone calls out as they pass down South Shields Avenue, stepping out from under the hood of his car. It was a beat up piece of shit, but no one on the South Side had the luxury of replacing their vehicles. No, in this part of the city you had to make the best of what you already had, even if you were under the hood fixing it every fucking morning.

"Kid fucker, next block." Terry murmurs around his cigarette.

Mickey stretches out his deltoids as they walk, his adrenaline spiking and his skin prickling in excitement, ready for a beat down so he can blow off a little steam. He's always liked these kinds of things, where they get together to form a united front, ready to protect what's their's. It was reassuring. It meant that, even though they usually beat the shit out of each other, when it came down to it, they had each other's backs. He thought that had to at least count for something. 

By the time they reach the house, half the fucking neighbourhood is with them, filling the front yard threateningly like a swarm of angry bees. Terry knocks on the door, his baton held firmly in his hand. They're a little surprised when the door is pulled open to reveal a thin woman with long blonde hair, looking understandably nervous as she peers through the small gap she's wedged open.

"May I help you?" She asks politely, her voice quivering slightly.

"We're looking for Blake Collins." His dad says, his tone far more gentle than it usually is.

The woman sighs in exasperation. "I am Blake Collins."

You could have heard a fucking pin drop.

"Oh, shit." Ian exclaims, the cigarette almost falling out his mouth. "You're the eighth-grade teacher who screwed her student, right? You were on TV."

"I didn't 'screw' William. I loved him. And I did my time. I paid for my mistake- if love can be called a mistake." She elaborates, folding her arms defensively.

Mickey chews on his bottom lip, the awkwardness of the situation weighing heavily in the air around them.

"I'm sure there are real criminals in the the neighborhood that you can beat up if you have the inclination. Now, please, may I close the door?" She continues, his voice rising as she becomes more and more agitated.

Terry nods uncomfortably. "Yeah, yeah."

Mickey waves as the door closes, trying his best to seem friendly and non-threatening. He might be an asshole most of the time, but Mickey didn't exactly thrive on frightening young women. They had enough shit to deal with without adding him to the list.

"Shit." Terry mutters when the door closes. "Let's go find a camel jockey."

The party disappears quickly, heading back the way they came to find someone else to beat up. Everyone was too amped up to just go home now.

"Yo, Carl, get home, all right?" Lip calls out, watching as the kid walked in the opposite direction.

"Shit, we should still do something." He mutters after a moment.

Mickey lights a cigarette, not too bothered about following Iggy and his dad. He'd much rather spend time with Ian, even if he did have to put up with his prick of a brother. 

"You thinking gang bang?" Mickey asks.

He's not being serious, but the Gallaghers' both look at him in silent disgust, as if Mickey's making a genuine suggestion. He's not a fucking animal. _Jesus Christ._

"Uh, no, but she fucks little kids."

"It was one kid, and he wasn't that little." Ian says nonchalantly, holding the gate open whilst Lip and Mickey follow him out onto the sidewalk.

Mickey thinks it's pretty fucked up that Ian thinks that. He blames it all on towel-head, and probably Frank's bad parenting come to think of it.

"Look, he was 14. She was his teacher. Do we really want a pedophile living in the neighbourhood?"

"Shit, if I was 14 and had a teacher who looked like that and wanted it?" Mickey murmurs, releasing a plume of smoke as he makes a show of rearranging himself in his pants. "Man, I'm getting wood just thinking about that."

He spots Angie Zago sitting on the porch steps, drinking vodka from a brown bag. He figures she'll be a good excuse for why he didn't go with the rest of them. It was the only kind of explanation his dad would accept. It was the sort of thing Terry could brag about to his drinking buddies. "Yo, Angie?"

"Yeah?" She calls back.

"You wanna fuck?"

"Sure." 

He tosses the end of his cigarette on the lawn, running up the stairs of the green house, and pretends he doesn't see the way Ian's staring at him. It's easier that way. If he's gonna get through this, he can't let himself think about the look of disappointment on the redhead's face.

Mickey doesn't speak a word when they get inside, just follows Angie into her pig-stye of a bedroom and closes the door. They take their own clothes off, not opting to help each other out like Mickey and Ian so often did nowadays. Mickey shakes his head when the girl gets on her back, gesturing for her to roll over so Mickey can get behind her, his hands on her hips and his head thrown back as he sinks inside. He closes his eyes tightly, imagines a different body beneath him, and then starts to thrust.

 

Mickey glances up from the magazine he's been reading, distracted by the sound of the door bell ringing. Ian hadn't said much of anything during their entire shift, so it was pretty fucking quiet and the unexpected noise made him jump. Usually he hated when it was like that, but knowing Ian was probably pissed off about earlier, he'd just left it and lost himself in articles about car mechanics. He raises his eyebrows when he notices the wiry kid who's just walked in; he'd been expecting him to drop by a couple hours ago. He thinks his name might be Jamie, but that was just a stab in the dark; Mickey didn't really give a fuck what the kid was called. Mickey watches him dither by the counter a moment. The kid's staring at him like he's got no fucking clue what he's doing and Mickey really wishes he hadn't got stuck with a first timer. It was a lot quicker and a lot smoother when they were experienced in these kinda deals.

"Buy something." Mickey mutters, picking up the coffee cup he's got prepared beside him and then standing up.

"89 cents." Ian says after the kid throws a pack of gum down.

Mickey holds the cup out in front of him and drops it in the trash in the most conspicuous way he thinks he can get away with. After all, Linda was gonna have footage of it all and even though she'd helped him out with his old position for his probation officer, he was pretty sure she'd hand him straight over to the cops if she knew he was dealing in her store.

"I- I don't get it." Jamie murmurs.

And,  _seriously?_ Did his parents teach him nothing? Mickey's making it fucking obvious what he's got to do. He's done the drop right in front of the kid's fucking face. He can't believe the idiot actually needs to be talked through it.

"Take the cup out of the trash." He says, his eyebrows raised in disdain.

_Dumb fuck._

"Oh, the stuff's in it!" Jamie exclaims, a dopey smile curving on his face when it finally clicks in his minuscule mind.

Mickey makes a sharp cutting motion across his throat, shaking his head, but the kid still doesn't get it. He sighs exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose to try and rein some of the irritation back in. He could fucking strangle the asshole.

"Just get out." Ian sighs when Jamie reaches for the cup. "You need whatever brain cells you got left."

Mickey can't argue with the redhead on that one. He says nothing when the kid looks at him, silently asking what to do. The lack of response is clearly answer enough though, and Mickey watches the kid leave despondently with nothing but a few sticks of gum.

"Why you gotta mess with my business, man?" Mickey asks the moment the door closes.

"Why you gotta do your business in my store?" Ian retaliates, the annoyance Mickey knows he's been trying to repress seeping out.

"It's not your store. It's towel-head's store." He reminds him.

"Whatever- get smarter customers 'cause I'm not going down for this shit." Ian argues, stepping out from behind the counter so he's in front of Mickey.

"Oh, okay. So, uh- what you going down for then, huh?" Mickey teases, wiggling his eyebrows at the redhead to try and lighten the mood. He didn't want to waste the time he had with the kid.

He knows Ian's trying not to smile at him, but the kid's a stubborn fuck and he just about manages to keep it off his face. Mickey fights the urge to roll his eyes, turning round and walking down the back instead. He opens the fridge and grabs a cold beer, appreciating the cool air that hits him square on. It's fucking hot in Chicago at the moment and the store's AC is mediocre at best. But then again, they were lucky Linda could afford it at all. Not many people round here could.

"Hey, did you really fuck Angie Zago today?" Ian asks, stuttering slightly on the 'fuck'.

Gallagher's playing with his fingers like he always does when he's nervous. Mickey tries not to think about how he's learned the meanings behind Ian's mannerisms. He pretends hearing the kid stutter over that particular word doesn't fill him with discomfort. He hates it when Ian gets all shy and hesitant like this around him. It makes Mickey feel like an asshole.

"Yeah, I fucked Angie." He says, feeling a little defensive. "Everybody fucks Angie."

He figures there's no point lying to the kid.

"You don't fuck Angie?" He asks, trying to sound as casual as possible, like it's the kind of thing they talk about all the time.

He already knows Ian doesn't. He knows the kid is strictly into dick. He's just trying to get Ian to understand, because even if Ian can walk around wearing a tiara, Mickey doesn't have the fucking liberty. He needs Ian to know he doesn't have a choice, needs him to know that this is all he's got to offer.

"No." Ian replies bluntly, frowning as if Mickey's speaking a completely different fucking language.

Mickey fidgets, guilt washing over him as if he's cheated on the kid or something. It feels like Ian's waiting on an explanation, and honestly, Mickey doesn't have one he can give. Not one he wants to share anyway. All the shit with his dad was fucking embarrassing. He did't need to say any of it out loud.

"Huh. You wanna fuck Angie? I can get her down here."

"No."

Mickey knew what the response would be before Ian even opened his mouth. He wouldn't have made the suggestion otherwise. It's ridiculous how much of a possessive little shit he is. He has zero right. Ian's not his. Never fucking will be either.

 

To avoid Ian's pissy fits, Mickey's been doing all his business at the other end of the store. He's just finishing up with a couple of his regulars, talking about what they've got coming in next week, when he catches Ian talking to some old guy in a suit jacket. He looks like a prick dressed like that here, and Mickey wonders what a hotshot like him is doing in the fucking Kash 'n Grab.

"So you drove all the way to the South Side for a bag of chips?" He thinks he hears Ian say.

Tyler and Dave hand Mickey his cash and quietly leave the store. Mickey can't help but watch Ian's interaction now he has no distraction. He can't make out what the guy is saying and it's really pissing him off. He wants to pretend the exchange is innocent, but he can tell by the expression on Ian's face that that's probably not the case. What was it with Ian's dick and wrinkly-ass queens? Did it give out some weird frequency, luring them like the pipe of the fucking Pied Piper? 

"I'm working." Ian says.

Mickey walks towards them as discreetly as possible, ready to give the guy a good beat down if Ian needs him to. The kid didn't seem to be too interested in his pursuer, but the creep certainly didn't appear to be discouraged. 

"Well, maybe later. Happy hour at The Fountain?" The fucker suggests.

Mickey tries to push down the uncomfortable heat unfurling in his stomach, tries to shake off the itch beneath his skin. It makes him so fucking angry that the kid didn't understand he was a victim, that this creep is taking advantage of him. It was straight up pedophilia; the guy was at least three times his age. And what makes it worse is that it's kind of Mickey's fault, isn't it? He got thrown in Juvie. He wasn't there to protect the redhead. He left him _vulnerable._ But then again, Ian doesn't  _look_ vulnerable. He looks arrogant as fuck. And maybe that's what's bothering Mickey so much; the fact that Ian seems to be  _enjoying_ the attention. He tries to tell himself it's purely because he's concerned. Ian's underage. The guy is fucking ancient. But he knows that's not all it is. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to admit to it. It's easier that way. He didn't need to look at this shit under a microscope. _  
_

"Yeah, okay." Ian replies.

_For fuck's sake._

"Okay."

Mickey moves to stand in front of the exit, puffing his chest out as he looks the sleazy prick up and down. Ian could do so much fucking better.

"You got a receipt?"

The guy frowns at him for a moment and then reaches back to grab the receipt Ian had already started printing. He holds it up, looking pointedly at Mickey, and Mickey slowly moves out the way, his eyes not leaving the bastard for a second. He watches him leave and waits for the door to close before he looks over to Ian.

"That your grandpa?" He asks.

"Nah, just a guy I've been seeing." Ian replies casually.

The kid looks smug and Mickey's pretty sure he knows what's going on. He knows he's being provoked, that the redhead is trying to get a reaction out of him, and it's fucking difficult for Mickey not to bite.

"Oh, that's the guy you've been, uh- you've been seeing?" Mickey murmurs, scratching at his eyebrow and looking away as he tries to keep the anger out his voice.

It makes it a hundred times worse that Ian's sat with his arms crossed, amusement plastered across his face as he watches Mickey struggle. Mickey rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, the sharp cut of them helping to keep him calm. He doesn't want to lash out. He doesn't want to give Ian the satisfaction.

"You guys like, picnic together, or, uh... you gonna get a little dog with a fucking sweater?" 

If Ian teases him about the rooftop again, Mickey'll fucking kill him. He's not in the mood right now. His temper fuse is about half an inch long and it's already hanging by a thread.

"Nah, we don't picnic. We mostly just fuck..." Ian says bluntly.

Mickey can see the redhead's own anger simmering away deep beneath the surface. He knows it's been silently building all day. Clearly, Mickey wasn't the only one struggling with the idea of them fucking other people. It's getting to both of them.

"Like you and Angie." Ian adds with a smirk.

_And there it is._

Mickey watches the passive aggressive fuck get up and walk away from him. He'd much rather they just get it all out now and beat the shit of each other, and then maybe fuck hard in the backroom to make up, but he's pretty sure Ian knows all about that. Ian knows him too fucking well and he knows that the best way to punish him is to ignore him. Mickey really wants to hit him.

Ian's fully aware that Mickey has to keep up appearances, that his dad and brothers will give him shit if he isn't regularly fucking chicks. And yet, Ian's still throwing it in his face. He knows it's not fair. He can't fuck around with Angie and then expect Ian to sit and wait for him like a good little housewife. He knows that's not who they are. And, yeah, this thing is supposed to be  _casual._ They're not exclusive. They're not boyfriend and girlfriend. Neither of them should be getting worked up about any of this. But here they are. It doesn't feel fucking casual at all. It feels fucking painful.

 

Mickey chews agitatedly at his lip as he watches Ian and the old guy chatting, drinking what looks like whiskey from some fancy-ass glasses. He feels uncomfortable being on the North Side without any real purpose; he only ever came up here if he was working. And honestly, he's feeling kind of stalkerish checking up on the kid. He knows he's overstepping, knows he shouldn't be crashing Ian's date, even if he's not actually 'crashing' it. Point is, he has no right. He's not offered Ian anything better than a quick fuck in the back of an alley, and he knows the kid deserves a lot more than that, deserves to actually have someone take care of him and not treat him like he's some dirty, shameful secret. Mickey knows he has no right, but he hates it anyway. He hates it because he's in such a fucking impossible situation. He wants Ian, more than he's wanted anything or anyone in his entire life, but he can't make a move on that; for Ian's sake as well as his own. He can't ask Ian to wait around for something that's never going to happen. He can't demand the kid not to date a guy who can offer him all those things Mickey is unable to. He can't be that selfish. 

Mickey sips from the can of beer in his hand, watching with a painful twist in his stomach as his redhead laughs at whatever the old prick is saying. He thinks it might be worse that the guy is so old. It's not right. Ian could have anyone, and he's settling for some dirty bastard who can't find someone his own age to stick his dick into. He wished he knew what it was that attracted Ian so much to these wrinkly old queens. He didn't understand how the kid could give himself to men that were so undeserving of everything he had to offer. Mickey knew better than anyone else that Ian had a presence, that he seemed to draw everyone in like moths to a flame, and Mickey hated that Ian didn't know when to say no, when to recognise someone who genuinely cared and someone who just wanted to get off. Although, he also realises it's pretty hypocritical of him to think like that, especially with how things had begun between the two of them. But even still, at least Mickey wasn't a fucking child molester. They'd both been underage in the beginning. They'd both been more than consenting. 

The minute he sees them get out their seats and head to the exit, Mickey's strolling across the street to meet them. He's got no fucking clue what the hell is going through his head, knows he's just going to piss the redhead off, but he can't help himself. He's up to his limit, can't deal with any of this bullshit anymore. Fuck, if Ian wasn't with Mickey, he was going to be with someone his own fucking age who could get it up without the help of little blue pills.

"Shit, Mickey. What the hell you doing here?" Ian asks, his eyes wide in surprise.

"Ah, from the store, right?" The old guy says.

Mickey scratches his nose and looks down. He thinks he might hit him otherwise. Why was the prick even talking right now? Mickey's not here to chitchat with the guy. He's here for Ian.

"Oh, come on, Ian. Don't be rude. Invite your boyfriend back to my place. I mean, the more the merrier, right?"

Mickey laughs, touching his fingertips to his lips briefly before flattening his hand out in front of him. He'd been feeling fucking pissed before, but now he was being called a fag, and by  _this_ guy. No.  _Fuck_ no. Maybe he let Ian pound his ass every now and then, but they weren't a fucking couple. Mickey wasn't gay. And even if he was, he would never let this guy put his pruney dick anywhere near him. He wasn't some twink. And for that matter, neither was Ian.

"I'm sorry. What'd you call me?"

Somehow, the jerk actually looks confused by Mickey's hostility. "What?"

Mickey snaps. He lurches forwards violently, head butting the guy with as much weight behind it as he can manage. He finds it extremely satisfying when the old man falls flat on his back.

"Oh, Jesus, Mickey!" Ian exclaims beside him. Mickey barely hears him.

"Faggot? What the fuck did you call me, faggot?"

Mickey falls to his knees, punches the guy with his left and then his right, enjoying the way the old man's head snaps from side to side.

"Enough. Enough!" Ian yells, pushing at Mickey's shoulder.

On any other day, Mickey might've listened to the redhead, but with how tense everything's been today, he just doesn't have it in him to stop. He shoves Ian off him as he gets to his feet, and then starts kicking at the dude's stomach instead. The hoarse shouts of pain are music to Mickey's ears. Yeah, he needed this.

Suddenly Ian darts in front of him and sharply jabs the side of his hand against Mickey's throat. It's some ninja-type shit and sends Mickey sprawling, clutching at his neck as he falls back on the floor. He can barely breathe. He's pretty sure the kid closed off his fucking windpipe.

"The fuck, Gallagher?" He splutters, lifting his head off the ground and slowly pushing himself up.

"Shit, Mickey. They're gonna call the cops." Ian exclaims, looking at all the parked cars around them and then bending down in front of his date. "Are you okay?"

"Come on!" Mickey says as soon as he's back on his feet. This really wasn't the time to play nurse.

"Sorry." Ian murmurs.

"Gallagher!" Mickey yells, already starting to move down the street. Ian needs to haul tail  _now;_ cars have stopped and people are fucking getting out.

"Sorry. I'll text you."

And then, just as Mickey anticipated, they were being chased.

"Ah, shit!" Ian exclaims behind him, both of them sprinting down the boulevard and cutting through a narrow alleyway.

They stop when they're a couple blocks over, finding themselves in one of the lanes behind a string of restaurants. It smells strongly of meat and grease, but there's no one about and it's quiet, so Mickey's not going to complain. Ian throws his arms up dramatically and crowds Mickey against the wall. Mickey can't stop the wide smile from spreading across his face. His adrenaline is still high and he feels more alive than he has in a long time.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Ian yells, bending over to catch his breath when it's obvious Mickey has no answer besides a grin.

Mickey grabs the back of Ian's neck and digs his fingers into his stomach; he knows how ticklish the redhead is there and he loves the high-pitched giggle it always pulls out of him. Mostly though, he just enjoys being able to touch the kid; he's been wanting to do it all day. Ian wraps his arms around him, attempting some lame wrestling move, and Mickey pinches his side in retaliation. Ian jolts back, grinning when Mickey wiggles his eyebrows playfully. Mickey spins on his heel and starts running up the alley, Ian chasing him closely behind and kicking him every chance he got. Laughter is escaping the kid's lips again and, honestly, Mickey thinks it's the best sound he's ever heard. Ian hasn't smiled properly all day, but now he was smiling so widely it must have been making his cheeks ache. The kid keeps grabbing at him and Mickey keeps pushing him off, running quickly and then dodging down another alley. Every time he catches a glimpse of Gallagher's stupid, giddy face, Mickey gets this weird, warm, mushy feeling because it's  _him_ who's made Ian smile like that. Mickey thinks he'd give anything for Ian to always be this happy. Anything.

 

They wander the streets for a long time, not really heading in any particular direction, just enjoying the company. They end up at Lincoln Park, the now dark blue sky illuminated by the life of the surrounding city. They sit on the steps of the Abraham Lincoln Monument - after Ian has tipped his imaginary hat off to the old president, much to Mickey's amusement - and Mickey sticks a cigarette between the redhead's lips, their eyes locking when Mickey lights it for him. They're sat closely together and the smell of whiskey, sweat and tobacco from Ian's sweat-slick skin is overwhelming. Mickey pulls the smoke impatiently from him and places it in his own mouth, turning his head quickly and looking out at the pond in the distance.

"Did you like it?" Ian asks quietly, as if he's trying not to disturb the peaceful moment they're cocooned in. He nudges Mickey gently with his shoulder because Mickey had a habit of ignoring his questions.

"What?"

"Angie Zago. Did you like fucking her?"

Mickey looks out the corner of his eye at the redhead and sighs. "What, like, was she better than you? That what you want me to tell you? I ain't giving no details."

"That's not what I asked, Mick." Ian says, and then slowly, "Did. You.  _Like._ It?"

Mickey turns back to face him, but he keeps his eyes low as he taps the ash from the end of his cigarette. "Why are you asking me this shit?"

"So, is that a no?"

This time Mickey meets Ian's gaze. He swallows thickly, a crippling fear washing over him. He looks at the redhead desperately, his eyes wide and his heart pounding, and silently begs the kid not to make him say it. If he doesn't admit to any of it out loud, then as far as Mickey's concerned, none of it is true. 

Ian reaches out and runs his fingertips through Mickey's sweaty, mussed up hair. Mickey can't help the way his eyes drift shut and he presses into the soft touch, but he quickly realises what he's doing and jerks back. He scrunches his eyes closed tighter and clenches his fists, but then he feels the loss of Ian's heat beside him and he lets his eyelids flutter open again. He jumps to his feet when he notices Ian is walking swiftly down the steps and heading straight for North Cannon Drive, panicking at the thought of the kid leaving him.

"Gallagher!" He calls out, struggling to match the redhead's long strides.

Ian comes to an immediate halt, and Mickey grunts when he has to dig his heels in, almost running straight into the broad back.

"You and your fucking giraffe legs." He huffs.

Ian chuckles softly, but it only lasts a couple of seconds. The resounding silence that follows is strangely sad.

Ian turns to face him again, and then suddenly Mickey's being shoved backwards, stumbling with his hands twisted in Ian's shirt until his back hits the solid trunk of an old tree. Mickey blinks up at him, his breath shallow as soon as Ian's body presses against his. The redhead leans down, presses their foreheads together, and Mickey's going fucking cross-eyed with the close proximity. He tries not to panic, tries to convince himself he's okay, but he can't because he's  _not._ He twists his head sharply when Ian tries to kiss him, the redhead's lips pressing against his cheek instead.

"Ian, I- I- " He stutters, his eyes filling with tears when he hears the kid's disappointed sigh.

"Yeah." Ian says, pecking him quickly on his forehead as he straightens up. "I know."

Mickey doesn't move for a moment, just bites down on the inside of his cheek as he watches Ian walk away. He feels like he's been punched, only the pain is far worse than he's ever received from a set of knuckles. He presses the heels of his hands angrily into his sockets, rubbing at his eyes until he thinks the tears will have disappeared. It's not all that successful, but he can see well enough to notice Ian has stopped about a hundred yards away, patiently waiting for Mickey to catch up. The kid smiles at him softly and Mickey drags his thumb across his bottom lip.

"Park's closing soon. We gotta go." Ian calls, his voice travelling easily across the empty space.

Mickey nods.

 

Ian's yawning by the time they get off the L at 47th; Mickey tries his hardest not to be endeared. They walk together side by side down La Salle Street and then right onto West 47th, saying nothing but bumping shoulders every few steps, until they get as far as South Normal Avenue. 

"I'm headed this way." He says quietly, nodding further down the street.

Ian frowns and looks down at his sneakers, toeing at the wide crack in the pavement.

"Shut up, man. I just gotta do some business. Need to cover the losses from that thick as shit kid earlier."

Ian nods, smiling bashfully. It reminds Mickey of how the redhead used to look when this whole thing started. Ian carried himself with more confidence now, an attractive self-assurance he seemed to have gained since setting his mind on being an officer. Mickey likes the new Ian, but it's kind of nice to see the old him too. Mickey pushes down the urge to sigh; apparently he'd been gone for the kid since the beginning.

Mickey punches the redhead affectionately on the shoulder. "See ya tomorrow."

"Night, Mick." He hears Ian reply behind him as he walks away.

 

He spots Jay and Ethan almost immediately when he crosses Ashland Avenue, standing with a few other tall, dark skinned guys by the traffic lights. They're on their usual corner where Ashland meets West 48th, leaning casually against the metal fence and throwing empty beer cans at the passing cars. He puts a cigarette between his lips and lights up as he approaches them, clicking his tongue when he notices the red and green beads Ethan has put at the ends of his long braids.

"Yo, Albino Pacino." Jay says with a smirk, waving Mickey over the moment he sees him.

Once he's standing beneath the streetlight, Mickey recognises who the other guys in the small gang are. He hasn't seen Dustin or Mike around here for a couple months at least, but they're looking good. No sign of any broken bones or tracking anklets. It's more than he can say for some of his buyers.

"My hair's fucking black, man. I ain't an albino. And I ain't a fuckin' mobster either. If I was, I wouldn't have to deal with you fuck-heads." Mickey replies, smoothing his hair back a little self-consciously.

"Alright." Ethan says, his hands held up placatingly. "You got anything good for us tonight?"

"Got some Mary Jane. I wasn't exactly meant to be on the clock."

"Desperate measures?" 

"Somethin' like that." Mickey says with a shrug.

Ethan hums. "How much for an eighth?"

"Thirty dollars. Special offer."

"Aight, I'll take one." Jay says, pulling three tens out his back pocket and handing them over to Mickey.

He holds the notes up to the light, checking that they're authentic, and then tosses over the small bag he's had buried in his pocket all night.

"You better give me a fucking hit. My dad never deals below forty bucks... and you still owe me for last week."

Jay rolls his eyes. "Fine. You gotta come shoot some hoops with us on Wednesday though. I wanna see you go up against Dustin."

"No fucking way. That fucker's like ten foot tall." Mickey replies.

Dustin smirks from beside Ethan, but he stays as quiet as usual.

"What're you again, Mick? Five foot five, was it?" Jay teases.

"I'm five foot fuckin' seven." Mickey grumbles, grinding his teeth together in irritation. He could still fucking take them if he wanted to. He might be short, but he's made of solid muscle. No one in the neighbourhood could hit as hard as he could.

Jay throws his arms up with a smug look on his face. "Whatever you say, man."

Mickey watches as Ethan rolls the blunt for Jayden, his fingers quick and assured. He was the one with the experience in the gang, but Jay almost always had the cash. The guys stare as Ethan seals it, all of them reaching out to take the first hit, except Dustin.

"You still abstaining?" Mickey asks him, peering over at the guy as he lights the spliff for Jay.

"Yeah, man." Dustin says, his voice a lot smoother than those of his smoking friends. "Haven't touched anything since I was fourteen."

"Dude's been working real hard for a scholarship." Mike says, his hand falling to grip Dustin's shoulder. "Gotta be clean if you want to play for the Bulls, right?"

Mickey nods in agreement, watching as Dustin starts playfully shoving at his buddy.

"He's good. Kid might just made it out there." Ethan adds, offering the joint to Mickey, his eyebrows arched questioningly.

"I guess someone's gotta get out this shit-hole." Mickey murmurs, exhaling the sweet-scented smoke as slowly as he can manage.

He passes it back to Ethan after taking a second long hit. "I gotta go. Shit to sort out and all that."

"Aight. Watch out for the cops down Halsted if you're heading that way. Word is they're doin' an all-nighter." 

Mickey nods in thanks and starts walking back the way he came.

"See ya Wednesday, Mick! Sherman Park!" Jay calls after him.

Mickey rolls his eyes, throwing the dude the bird over his shoulder. Like fucking hell was he going to Sherman Park. He was shit at basketball. Always had been. Baseball was his game; he could hit hard and run fast, thanks to a childhood with Terry constantly on his ass. Besides, Wednesday was when he did the late shift with Ian at the store. It was pretty quiet so they usually just locked up early and fucked in the back instead. Mickey wasn't gonna miss that for anything.

 

He takes a long route home, diverting slightly off track so he can go past the Gallagher house. He doesn't know why, but just knowing Ian's close by and safe makes him feel more at ease. All the lights are off and it's strangely quiet, so Mickey figures they must all be asleep. It's so uncharacteristic, he's unsure for a moment whether he's even got the right house, but then he notices Frank passed out on the porch and everything's right in the world again. He hopes Mandy is tucked up safely inside with the rest of them, hopes she'll be gifted with one more night of decent sleep. Mickey certainly sleeps better when his sister's not at home; that way he doesn't have to worry about his dad getting his grubby, old hands all over her. 

He's practically fallen asleep on his feet when suddenly he hears a door slam. He blinks hard and rubs at his eyes, looking around to see who might be approaching him. His stomach drops when he realises it's Ian, his shoes squeaking as he steps over Frank and walks down the steps. There's no cars around, but Ian still looks both ways before crossing the road towards him, a small, lopsided grin on his face.

"You stalking me, Mick?" The redhead asks softly.

Mickey swallows thickly, surprised by how fondly Ian says his name. How has he never noticed that before? He doesn't think anyone's ever spoken so gently to him. 

"How're you still awake? You were practically comatose all the way home." Mickey replies. 

Ian pushes his hands further down into the pockets of his jeans and arches his back, his head tilting so he can look up at the inky black sky. His hoodie and t-shirt hitches up slightly at the movement; Mickey can't help the way his gaze falls to the small sliver of pale skin that's revealed. He wants to drop to his knees, run his tongue along it and suck dark, glistening marks into the juts of his hipbones. He licks his lips and takes a step back, his pulse beginning to race from just the thought of touching the redhead.

"Couldn't stop thinking." Ian admits.

And yeah, maybe Mickey forgot he'd asked the kid a question.

"About what?"

"D'you know Mandy chased Blake out the neighbourhood?" The redhead asks, apparently too lost in his own thoughts to answer Mickey's question.

"Yeah?" Mickey snorts, amused. "What she do?"

"Got Iggy and your uncle to dig a grave in her front yard and told her she'd be at the bottom of it unless she took off." 

Mickey rolled his bottom lip out, nodding in approval. "Straight to the point, I guess."

Ian hummed, stepping closer to Mickey and reaching his hand out slowly. He ran his fingertips lightly across his forehead, then trailed them down his cheek until he could cup his jaw. The touch was so gentle and barely there that it made Mickey shudder, his eyelids beginning to feel considerably more heavy. Ian's rough, callused thumb brushed his chin and then carefully pressed down on his bottom lip. The redhead gasped when Mickey opened his mouth and bit down on the pad of it. Their eyes locked, and for perhaps the first time, Mickey didn't actually feel afraid. He wasn't sure what'd happened in the short space of time between the park and now, but suddenly he didn't want to flinch away. That is, right up until a light flicked on in the house behind them. Mickey jerked back, rubbing at his nose and clearing his throat loudly in embarrassment. 

"So... " Ian murmured, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Mmhmm." Mickey hummed in reply, rolling his eyes.

"I should get back inside. Got training in the morning."

"Okay." 

"You gonna go too? You look tired, man." Ian said with a small frown.

Mickey sighed. "Think I might stay here a little bit longer."

Ian shifted from foot to foot. "You could stay here if you want? Y'know... if you don't wanna go home or whatever. Mandy's already here. You can have the couch."

"Nah, man. You guys got enough to deal with. I'm fine." Mickey muttered back.

"Have my hoodie then. It's cold." Ian said, shrugging out of it before Mickey even has the chance to argue.

Mickey shakes his head, stepping back, but Ian just throws it over his head. By the time Mickey pulls it off, Ian's already across the street, waving over his shoulder as he disappears back inside the house. He lifts the garment to his face and smiles. It smells like Ian. It's still warm from his skin. Mickey pulls it over his head and chuckles at the way the sleeves hang over wrists. Fucking giraffe. Stupid, stupid, fucking giraffe.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not take credit for the dialogue from the show; I have simply used it to aid my own story and exploration of Mickey.  
> The credit for those parts goes deservedly to the writers.
> 
> Feel free to contact me: http://enochianess.tumblr.com


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